


Skin Jar

by BirdieMing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, HP Horror Fest 2018, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-04-25 12:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14378994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BirdieMing/pseuds/BirdieMing
Summary: Who are we all, really? It’s superficial. Of course it is. No one’s going to crack their chest wide open at the lightest request, and if you do, then you’re an anomaly, something to be eradicated with clutched pearls and exchanged looks. High society never did favor the boldly bright. They preferred their men poised with power; their ladies beautiful and haughtily docile. It’s the unattainable lifestyle, one that you were either born or married into. It’s all what Petunia Evans of dirty, industrial Cokeworth ever wanted.





	Skin Jar

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written for the 2018 HP Horror Fest. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> LuceFray27 is the bestest beta and that’s that on that.
> 
> Prompt: Society demands beauty. But it’s only so long before the burden of wearing another person’s face begins to take its toll on the person inside.

_I thought I'd silenced you_  
_But here you are again_ _  
Welcoming my anxiety_

 _I've wanted to throw you out_  
_But since you're the gate_ _  
I'll remain the prison_

Do You Feel Real - Sevdaliza

* * *

 

**Skin Jar**

Who are we all, really? It’s superficial. Of course it is. No one’s going to crack their chest wide open at the lightest request, and if you do, then you’re an anomaly, something to be eradicated with clutched pearls and exchanged looks. High society never did favor the boldly bright. They preferred their men poised with power; their ladies beautiful and haughtily docile. It’s the unattainable lifestyle, one that you were either born or married into. It’s all what Petunia Evans of dirty, industrial Cokeworth ever wanted.

***

Lily was never alone, even if she thought she was. Petunia would always be watching, completely fascinated by the way her younger sister was so different from herself. It was apparent when she was presented with the red-haired baby, all rosy cheeks and toothless grins in a woven bassinet. Her gaze had lifted to the line of photographs sitting on the mantel, locking in on the one of herself as a newborn, looking downright stoic in comparison. With her (their) parents anxiously waiting for a reaction, Petunia smiled placidly at age two and stepped forward to stroke a chubby cheek. “Baby sister is beautiful.”

***

Humidity settled over the country in a thick disgusting layer, signalling the start of summer and the annual reunion of the two Evans children. King’s Cross Station looked to be the same as last year (and the year before that and the year before that and the year—), heinously crowded and lacking in any sort of wow factor apparent to those above the age of seven.

Petunia’s lips were pressed firmly together in annoyance as she trailed after her parents. It wasn’t a matter of choice in attending her sister’s homecoming, not if she wanted to continue seeing Vernon Dursley after a disastrous family introduction. Though admittedly, he had a personality equivalent to watching paint dry and bore a rather remarkable resemblance to a walrus, he at least seemed to enjoy her company (perhaps because she sat through his dull but impassioned rants, without telling him what she really thought) and held a junior executive position at his uncle’s drilling corporation, Grunnings.

Lily stood surrounded by her friends, exchanging last hugs and laughs before she sees them again inevitably next week because “We should hang out this summer!” wasn’t just a thing to be said in her circle. It was almost poetic, the way Lily’s radiant face found her family as the crowd thinned and how Mr and Mrs Evans practically ran to meet their daughter in a tearful embrace. Petunia rolled her eyes, how was it that the same song and dance never got tired for them?

“Petunia, come say hello to your sister!”

It was as though the Lily-induced fog of affection had broken for her mother as she finally remembered that her first daughter had come along as well. How sweet it was to be an afterthought. Petunia was careful to remain civil outwardly, approaching her sister with a stiff smile and an outstretched hand. Lily, unperturbed by the gesture, shook the offered hand. “Hello, Tuney. It’s nice to see you,” she said neutrally. Petunia nodded jerkily in response, not wanting to risk saying something acidic. Though it was not the warm sisterly reunion her parents had hoped for (a frankly naive thought), they were pleased that it hadn’t dissolved into an immediate fight.

“Bye, Evans! We’ll see you at Marlene’s!” A boy with messy dark hair and glasses shouted obnoxiously after them with a grin. Without turning around, Lily threw a hand up to indicate she heard, sighing exasperatedly in a way that could be described as fond.

“Is that the boy you’ve been complaining about all these years?” Mr Evans asked. “Yes, Dad.” Lily sighed, rolling her eyes. Mrs Evans linked her arm with Lily’s and asked with a twinkle in her eye, “Any chance you’ve grown out of hating him? He does seem—”

Petunia took her cue to check out of the conversation (not that she’d been a part of it) in favour of trailing behind them once again. A flash of black robes caught her eye. It was that greasy looking Snape boy and his equally greasy mother. They walked along the wall with their heads down, Mrs Snape muttering to her son. Petunia was not sure why they made such a peculiar picture as she stared unabashed. As if sensing the heat of her stare, the Snape boy suddenly looked up and found Petunia’s face. He sneered at her before returning his attention to his mother.

How curious. Usually he would have at least waved to Lily before leaving the station. Petunia glanced at her sister, who was still under an assault of questions from their parents. She didn’t seem to notice or even care about Snape’s proximity at all. How very curious, indeed.

***

The front lawn of the Evans home was a point of pride, featuring neatly manicured grass shaded by a large willow tree that served to both enhance and distract from the grey that was Cokeworth. Below the tree sat a single plastic lounge chair, yellow and the kind that needed to be weighed down on a breezy day. It was occupied by Lily, who was flipping through a magazine in an attempt to catch up on all things Muggle. Her dark red hair was illuminated by the sun slipping between swaying branches.

Petunia did her best to appear busy in the kitchen, dumping butter and sugar into a large bowl before mixing vigorously. Though she _did_ intend to bake a few dozen cookies for Vernon’s upcoming company party (playing her part as the dutiful girlfriend), her focus couldn’t help but stray to Lily outside. She was the pretty picture of teenage girlhood, the kind that was pushed by all the magazines and movies, the kind that was rarely sighted in reality.

The intense stare she had on her sister was interrupted for a second as she hastily measured out and added in the powder ingredients. A sudden muffled shout, however, made her head snap up. Abandoning her half-hearted attempt at cookies altogether, she moved toward the window, crouching and careful to allow only a single eye to be revealed in the bottom left corner.

“You don’t understand!” It was that Snape boy again. His hair hung in thick greasy strings, doing little to hide the bags that seemed to carry the weight of the world beneath his eyes.

If Lily noticed, she didn’t care. It landed as a relentless attack on him when she immediately snarled, fire hardened. “Bullshit! I understand perfectly. You cowed to bigotry. You _accept_ it!”

His voice fell low in response, and Petunia strained to hear. Lily’s fury only grew as he attempted to explain himself once more, cutting him off before a complete sentence could leave his mouth. “No, I don’t want to hear it! You made your choice!”

Petunia saw her storm toward the house and with practised ease, straightened up, a casual facade erasing her intense focus. The door slammed, Lily’s heavy footsteps intrusive to the silence that usually fell over the house during the day. A flash of red hair passed the kitchen entryway, and Petunia called out smugly, “Trouble in paradise between the freaks? Whatever happened to ‘best friends forever?’”

“Mind your own fucking business, Tuney!”

Petunia laughed as Lily slammed her bedroom door. When her gaze slid out the window and found the Snape boy still standing there, looking pale and defeated, he seemed to sense being watched. She raised a brow and smirked when she caught his eye. He didn’t sneer like she thought he would. Instead, he raised his own brow in response before walking away. 

The windowpane thinned.

***

Patience was a virtue, and one that Petunia possessed. But she was only human, and it slipped dangerously during her bi-weekly lunch date with Vernon in the Grunnings employee cafeteria. She watched blankly as his mouth moved grotesquely, bits of sandwich dropping onto the sticky table through loud exaggerated assertions. He paused to swallow, gulp down half of his large fizzy drink, and belch before shoving a handful of crisps into his mouth. The small bowl of soup ( _that he had refused to pay for, claiming that he couldn’t spare the two quid on the account of—_ ) in front Petunia remained untouched.

By now, her brain had grown to be quite adept at turning Vernon’s voice into a steady hum, alerting her to make noises of acknowledgment when there was a lull or a change in volume. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to reduce the  _visual_ aspect of dining with Vernon. He’d taken another bite of his sandwich and presumably continued where he left off on the inanities of regulation. Petunia inhaled and exhaled slowly, but found it to be a poor substitute for a loudly heaved sigh of annoyance. Peeking at her watch discreetly, her eyes nearly bulged when she saw there were still ten tortuous minutes left on Vernon’s lunch break.

It was both fortunate and unfortunate that a piece of half-chewed mush flew out of his mouth, across the table, and into her soup bowl on an especially strongly punctuated pronouncement.

“All right, I’ve had enough,” she said sharply, standing suddenly. Vernon’s beady eyes had the gall to widen in surprise. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“What’s the matter? _What’s the matter?"_ she hissed. “The matter is that you’re completely repulsive, a disgusting pig of a man! I mean for God’s sake, how hard is it to chew with your mouth closed?”

His face began to redden rapidly, eyes darting around the cafeteria for any turned heads. In the same moment, ice shot down her spine as she realised what she had done. This was it—months upon months of tolerance and careful phrases and perfunctory displays of affection to edge him ever so closer to giving her a ring and a ticket to the middle class sunk into the dirty river she’ll be smelling for the rest of her days. And all because she failed to control something controllable; her temper.

She hastily reclaimed her seat as purple began to edge into the red of Vernon’s face, ready to receive the fallout. “Uncle was right. Cokeworth birds are all the same. Worthless and crass,” he sneered, face morphing unattractively.

Petunia’s face tightened. She grasped desperately at the end of a string that reminded her why she had put so much effort into this relationship, going as far as to alter her accent to be more posh and selling Grandmother’s jewelry to afford new dresses. She was well aware that she was not a conventionally attractive woman, having inherited a set of genes featuring the worst of her parents (the best had gone to Lily, of course). Being from Cokeworth narrowed the dating pool even further. Vernon, while horrid and vile in almost every way, had a steady corporate job in the city and most importantly, _was willing to court her_.

Stiltedly, she said, “I apologise, Vernon. Please do forgive me for my careless outburst.”

***

She came home to an empty house, feeling drained. Her progress with Vernon had been reduced by several steps, but was ultimately preserved after she pulled out the you-get-to-save-the-poor-Cokeworth-girl card. Men always want to feel like the hero, and it had worked like a charm. _It’ll be worth it to stay with him, it will, it will, it will_ , she’d repeated to herself like a mantra as she went through her prepared monologue.  

After having a glance into the future with Vernon, thinking of all the dinners she would have to endure with him as a married couple and subsequently tightening her shackle to him on her own accord, she just wanted to kick off her uncomfortable shoes and get properly pissed on the box of wine she’d picked up on the way home. There was no one to witness her behaviour anyway with her parents working overtime and Lily spending the week in Scotland.

***

Half of the box drained later, Petunia stumbled toward the locked bedroom of her sister, slur-mumbling to herself. “Stupid freak bitch, thinks she’s sooooo much better than me with her fucking friends and chasing boys and _magic_ and Scotland trips. Well, perfection’s a glass! You’re hiding something, I _know_ you are, damn it!” 

She jiggled the door knob aggressively. The door remained locked. “Shit,” she muttered, glaring as though the heat of it could melt the barrier between her and precious blackmail material. She aimed a kick at it. “Ow! Well, fuck you too!” 

In her wine soaked brain, memories laid at the very bottom, especially ones that weren’t of frequent use. Petunia sat slouched on the sofa as she waited for the macaroni and cheese to heat up. The steady hum of the microwave was joined by her own humming, a nonsensical tune, but it made her think of the music box she had hidden beneath her bed. It made for the perfect object to stash things in. If anyone had stumbled across it, they’d assume it was a sentimental piece from childhood.

The force of the epiphany got her to her feet, swaying forward dangerously. With a low groan, she made her way to her own room, dropping heavily to the ground to reach beneath her bed. Ignoring the thin layer of dust atop of the unassuming music box, she opened it, immediately grabbing at the little ballerina to prevent the tune from sounding. She giggled with glee at the sight of her lock picking set and plucked it out before closing the box with a snap.

***

Lily’s bedroom was not so different from hers. It featured the same single bed, bedside table, standard floor lamp, bookshelf, and dresser. Her walls however, were covered in a collage of moving photographs and still posters. Petunia’s were bare.

Stifling the sudden burst of resentment, she turned her attention toward the large trunk at the foot of Lily’s bed. It was unlocked, secured only with easily flipped latches. Petunia snorted, _like taking candy from a baby_.

To her knowledge, Lily no longer kept a diary, not after the rookie mistake on Petunia’s part that resulted in a midnight hospital trip. Her school trunk would be next best option, seeing as she spent most of the year living out of it. If she had anything to hide, it’d be the place to stash. 

Petunia did not waste time, opening the trunk without ceremony to find stacks of spine-creased textbooks, old assignments, and casually tossed in clothes. Nestled between brightly wrapped sweets and highlighters were a curiously small set of what she presumed to be _potion_ supplies. She took a mental picture of the exact layout before rifling through the clothes, which resulted in nothing of use.

Exhaling noisily, she stared down at the open trunk, fingers tapping on the edge. _If I was Lily, where would I hide something from Petunia?_ The answer slid through her now less inebriated mind; it would be in between the pages of a textbook. Throughout the years, Petunia had unwaveringly rejected any reminder of how Lily had been selected for the most exclusive world there was, one where the impossible was suddenly possible, one that gave her privilege. _She just had to get everything, didn’t she? The looks, the popular personality, the magic…all the attention from their parents._

She laid the six covers out in front of her; _The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 6_ , _Advanced Potion-Making_ , _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ , _Advanced Rune Translation_ , _Flesh-Eating Trees of the World_ , and _Confronting the Faceless_. She thumbed through each of the books, beginning with the thickest of the bunch. The images and text that flashed by did nothing more than raise her eyebrow until she was met with the last and thinnest of them all. At first glance, it was simple and unassuming, a plain black cover with white text. Quite apt for an authorless book titled _Confronting the Faceless_.

Disappointment settled in her stomach, it was unlikely that anything relevant would be hidden in such a thin book; one you couldn’t hollow out. Still, it was the first rule of blackmail to leave no stone unturned. She flipped through slowly, page by page, eyes lingering on foreign words and crudely surreal illustrations. The next page brought her three bolded words, all of which had been in her vocabulary since primary school: **Skin Jar Curse**.

Hook. Line. Sinker.

***

Convenience was not a believable excuse on Severus Snape. A perpetual loner, he had no business in their suburb, even if just to escape from Spinner’s End and his broken home. Severus Snape did things with purpose, and this _loitering_ , for lack of better word, was no different.

Rubbish collecting day brought Snape around, walking by at dusk across the street. The slight twitch of his jaw told Petunia that he’d hoped that she was Lily. In her opinion, he would have been better off hiding behind the neighbour’s bin if he’d been aiming for inconspicuous.

He’d be at the end of the street in the morning, looking like a lost puppy, when Lily would pass on the way to town. After two run-ins, she simply changed her route. Petunia shook her head.

Predictable was not a word Petunia would have pinned on Snape, but his attempts to catch Lily in a moment alone were frankly of an amateur at best. She’d been observing her baby sister from the day she was born, this was _her_ territory. And hers alone.

Petunia stood at the imaginary line between Cokeworth and Spinner’s End, five minutes before Snape was set to appear. Routines killed people; on the dot, his shadowy figure stopped in front of her. “Evans,” he said stiffly.

She smiled condescendingly. “Another pathetic attempt to win Lily’s heart, I see. Nothing like stalkerish behaviour from a rejected lover to make a lady fall into your arms.” She swooned mockingly.

“Rich coming from you. You’ve been _watching_ her since you were girls,” he said, laughing humourlessly when he saw a flash of surprise across Petunia’s face. “Yeah, that’s right. I know of your sick obsession, Evans.”

Petunia's face suddenly smoothed. “We’re on even ground, then.” She turned to leave but paused to look back and launch a cruel knife. “She’ll never love you back, you know. Something about a James Potter, I hear?”

***

Spinner’s End did not provide a sense of improved morale. The residents must’ve thought it futile to even attempt a bit of distraction from the seemingly permanent grayscale as dirt (or on occasion, a few broken garden gnomes) surrounded each sturdy shack. Petunia, however, believed in giving credit where credit was due. The contrast between Cokeworth and Spinner’s End did not become apparent until she’d realised that her neighbourhood had long faded out of sight. After all, the only way to cook a frog was to place it in tepid water and gradually increase the temperature.

Petunia never thought she’d voluntarily step foot into the area, and yet there she was, some kilometres deep into the territory and standing in her mother’s old hand-me-down dress with a piece of folded paper burning in her pocket, ready to raise her fist and knock on the front door of the Snape residence. It was shameful, really.

The door swung open before she could move, saving her from having to make contact with the filth-streaked door. “Snape,” she greeted evenly.

“Did something happen to her?” he asked with great urgency, face ashen. Petunia snorted and tried to push past him, but he grabbed her arm roughly and directed her to the side of the house. There, she shook him off, straightening her sleeve. 

“You can rest your little head, she’s in pristine condition,” she said with a roll of her eyes before reaching into her pocket to pull out the torn page of Lily’s textbook. Wordlessly, she handed it to him. The next few seconds ticked by like poured treacle.

Eventually, he looked up from the thin page to study her. “You’ve always been jealous of her,” he murmured, “so vibrant and kind…so different from you.” 

Petunia remained silent, not daring to shift, not daring to show vulnerability when she was the one manipulating the strings. “Now you want to _be_ her,” he said softly. He started to shake his head as it dawned on him the purpose of her visit. “No. _No,_ _I refuse_. I will play no part in your insanity, in your deranged plot!”

Petunia had expected this reaction. He was emotional, too deeply invested in the one-sided relationship they had shared. Good. Emotional people were more susceptible to suggestion and irrational decision making. So she smiled, letting a giggle slip through her teeth. “Deranged?”

“ _It’s smart_ ,” she corrected sharply, the smile disappearing from her face as sudden as it had appeared. Snape stared at her for a moment, as if he was having something that’s been lingering in the back of his mind for all these years suddenly be shoved to the forefront. He made a step to leave, but it was Petunia’s turn to pull at his arm and force him to stay. 

Her voice turned sickly sweet. “She’ll never forgive you for what you did. What was it that you said about her? Oh, yes. She’s _kind_. And it seems that your actions have gone past her limit.” She paused. “That’s a pretty wide range of tolerated behaviour you’ve surpassed there.”

Exhaling noisily through his nose, his crossed arms tightened. He considered her again, remembering the days where he had to comfort Lily because of something the woman that stood in front of him now had said or done. The old memories were soured by recent ones. Ones where she’d screamed at him in all her righteous glory, where she was cold and unmoved by his grovelling.

“What are you proposing?”

Petunia’s heart leapt, but she kept her face devoid of satisfaction. “Perform the curse on her and transfer me in. I’ll get the life I should’ve gotten and in return, you’ll receive the love you crave from her.” Softening her voice deliberately, she added, “It won’t be her, not really. But wouldn’t it be enough?"

To have Lily’s beautiful green eyes alight with fondness and laughter directed toward him again would’ve healed his heart and relieved him of the pressure that’d been weighing on his shoulders. It would have been everything. Was he desperate enough for it? Enough to betray the first soul he’d ever bonded with? 

He never claimed to be strong.

***

Though Petunia would have preferred a more expedited process, there was no denying that the last three weeks had been crucial. She’d acted the changed woman, kind and playful with her sister after a disgustingly emotional chat over tea. Building a sense of trust with her would be essential for the next step as Severus (as she now called him for practise) prepared the priming potion in the back of his closet.

Now the day was finally here.

Petunia awoke at dawn and met Severus on the border dividing their neighbourhoods. He wordlessly slipped her the vial of dark red potion and gave a single nod before walking away.

Anticipation ate at Petunia’s stomach. She’d been entirely too pleasant toward Vernon on their lunch date, her giddiness attributed to the relief she felt at never having to interact with him again after this day mistaken for genuine affection. Afterward, she paid a visit to the grocery store, picking up ingredients for tonight’s dinner, the one that she had generously offered to cook in place of her sister. It would just be the two of them, like it usually was with both of their parents working overtime. Petunia tried not to burst into laughter standing in front of the dried pasta section, keenly aware of the vial tucked in the front pocket of her purse. _Too easy_.

Held up against the light of a setting sun, the potion looked less like blood and more like the future as the thick liquid swirled without being coaxed. Uncorking the vial, she poured its contents over Lily’s spaghetti, the marinara sauce disguising the potion seamlessly. After giving the tainted plate a quick stir, she stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining area, careful to set the plate in her left hand on her own placemat.

Lily smiled in appreciation. “Thank you, Tuney. Looks lovely.”

“‘Course, dove.”

They tucked in without further comment, their new found civility still fragile. It didn’t matter anyway, Petunia’s patience would pay off in just hours. 

Lily broke the silence after several minutes. “Oh my god, d’you remember when we used to play doll and you’d feed me?” Her green eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm. Petunia let out a chuckle, “I do. You were always so obedient, too.”

“If only for the free food,” Lily said through another forkful. Petunia’s lips quirked up in a perfect illusion. _Come on, just a few more bites_.

***

Two hours after dinner, Lily had called an early night, suddenly overcome with fatigue. Petunia had accepted her apology for postponing their trip to the cinema with an appropriate level of concern. She sat on the couch and waited exactly ten minutes, in which Lily was guaranteed to be put in a dead sleep, before stepping outside to bring in the yellow plastic lounge chair, signalling to Severus that the plan was officially afoot. 

Their parents returned home at ten with the car. They’d barely asked about her day and muttered a “So glad you and Lily are getting along, dear,” through bleary smiles before heading straight to bed, exhausted. Just as well.

At precisely two thirty, once the streets were silent and dark, Petunia dragged a motionless Lily out of her bed and into an old office chair. She wheeled her sister down the hallway slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. The car keys were where they always were, in the unprotected pocket of her father’s worn jacket.

Petunia lifted the chair over the threshold with a grunt, making Lily’s entire torso sway dangerously forward. She hooked an arm across her chest hastily, shoving her back into a less precarious position.

She unlocked the passenger door, squinting in the darkness before exhaling heavily. Transferring an unconscious Lily from the chair to the car proved to be difficult, the pure deadweight leaving Petunia sweaty and panting with exertion. But it had been done and her sister was now safely strapped in the car. The office chair was quickly returned to its original spot back inside the house before Petunia locked the front door, got into the car, and began to drive toward the river bank.

The yellow headlights shone on Severus as they arrived. He was facing the river, back to the car, hands clutching onto a plastic bag, shoulders tense. The cover of night was restored as Petunia removed the keys, headlights darkening and engine silent. She exited the car, shutting the door behind her, and made her way to the passenger side. “Some assistance would be much obliged,” she called.

At the sight of Lily slumped in the seat, Severus sharply inhaled and pushed Petunia aside, taking Lily into his arms—a bridal carry to the tree stump where he propped her up with a gentleness that made Petunia want to retch. Sensing hesitation from him, she went to stand by his side, looking down at her sister. “Soon we’ll both get what we’ve long desired,” she said softly. He met her gaze with tortured darkness and nodded, unable to verbally confirm his commitment to a second sin.

The plastic bag rustled as he reached in and retrieved a vial, another potion that would now prime _her_ for the total transfer. Even in such low light, the grey metallic colour of it managed to shine. She uncorked the vial and swallowed the potion in one go, grimacing as it tasted vaguely of perfume and smoke.

She then moved to sit beside her sister, taking hold of a limp hand as Severus placed the candles and flowers around them before drawing the sigils with ash. _Old magic_ , he’d told her. The kind that didn’t require a wand, just an energy and a push of innate power. All the better then. She didn’t hold an ounce of magic in her, but she had extremity in her belief. Didn’t that count for something?

“Ready?” he asked, speaking for the first time that night. She looked him dead in the eye. “I’ve been waiting for a long time, Severus. Of course I am.”

With closed eyes, he took a steadying breath before he began to chant monotonously. The candles burst into flame, forming a flickering triangle. As he traced each of the sigils with an index finger, voice steady but body tense, an unseasonably cool breeze washed over the river bank, though the litter remained unmoved.

Petunia’s fingertips began to tingle as the bouquet of white lilies began to blacken at the edges. The accompanying bouquet of unopened petunias began to bloom. Lily’s eyes rolled and twitched beneath her lids.

Without breaking the chant, Severus walked silently toward them, taking Lily’s cold hand with his right and Petunia’s with his left.

 _“Primam cutem in vas unum et anima secundus percolantur_.” A golden thread slithered out of his right ear and into Lily’s, a full body shudder running through her. It shot out of her other ear and into Petunia’s. Her body numbed instantly, her head feeling swollen with pressure, her vision blurred. 

The three of them were connected; the energy thrummed, pulsated through Petunia, fed to her by Lily and Severus. “ _Primam cutem in vas unum et anima secundus percolantur_.” Petunia joined in the chant, bolstered by the stolen magic flowing through her for the first time.

The thread bled into a deep purple, allowing Severus to leave the connection for the final stage. He took out a silver blade and carefully sliced two parallel lines into Lily’s palm, doing the same—less carefully, but it was no matter—to Petunia’s before moving to press her palm against her sister’s, their blood mingling.

For the final time, Severus intoned, “ _Primam cutem in vas unum et anima secundus percolantur_.” 

Petunia’s body slacked immediately, as if completely drained of substance. Simultaneously, Lily’s increasingly violent twitches came to a head. Whether it was out of magic’s mercy or cruelty, Lily’s eyes shot open for a split second, unfiltered with fright, and allowed her to have a final moment as herself before her sentencing. A half-gasped plea sounded from her throat before she fell onto her side and became very still. The river bank silenced, charged with energy.

Then every candle snuffed out on its own accord as a piercing shriek rang out in the dark. Silence again until Severus nervously shuffled forward. “Lily?” 

Her eyes opened, green and sparkling with crazed elation. 

***

_Two weeks later_

Her former vessel had fallen into what was essentially a vegetative state. Mr and Mrs Evans were devastated, of course, sobbing over the pale figure in the hospital gown as they wrestled with the unfortunate prognosis.

Whispers of “consider the financials” and “the quality of life should she recover” felt shameful, but evidently not enough. With weakly scrawled signatures, Petunia Mae Evans was pronounced dead on the 18th of July, 1976 at eight forty-seven in the morning.

She cried alongside her mother and father as they pulled the plug, picture of the mournful sister. In the tears she shed, she celebrated the doors that were now flung wide open after spending nearly two decades banging on them to no avail, even as an undertone of bitterness acknowledged that it was all because she’d traded her old faded shell for a shiny new one.

Settling into her new body felt something like the cork of a champagne bottle, the snug fit of it threatening to explode at a moment’s notice. A single body was not meant to contain two souls, even if the host’s was compressed to just the slightest hum below the surface. In addition, the magic of the host didn’t like being suppressed, and though Petunia had now taken over, it refused to be under her command. It always felt like she had to make an effort to clamp down on the fury and sadness and confusion threatening to crack the carefully fused layer of a new presence.

It was a small price to pay for what she had planned next, but her past had to be buried. She stood at the head of the congregation, dressed in black, pale hands trembling. Tucking dark red hair behind her ears (a classic Lily mannerism), she leant toward the microphone. “Petunia was my sister. We didn’t always get along,” she paused to swallow the half-sincere lump in her throat, blinking away summoned tears. “That was more of a recent development, and it’s funny how just when we began to understand each other—” she choked, allowing a few tears to spill over. “Petunia had so much ahead of her and so much left to teach me.”

She turned away from the microphone to compose herself, taking deep breaths. The facade was holding up well, better than she thought. It seemed that all those years of watching Lily had prepared her well for the role— _the life_. Perhaps she’ll move to America and become an actress.

“Sorry,” she said with a sniffle, swiping away tears. “I wish it had not taken this tragedy to make me understand that family can disappear in the blink of an eye—to be more grateful for the time we have together.”

Mr and Mrs Evans were crying openly in the front row. She felt her heart clench at the sight, but it was tainted with resentment. They never paid much attention to her before, perhaps assuming she could handle herself, as though her two years extra years of life bought her some sort of shield from the hardships of life. They doted on Lily instead ( _the baby_ ), talking about her and talking _to_ her. Petunia was always the afterthought. Why hadn’t they offered the same support, the same safety net, the same _home_?

She looked out into the small number of attendees. It was clear that everyone, aside from her parents, only attended out of obligation, and that was perfectly fine. She noted that Vernon Dursley had a look of constipation, as if he couldn’t decide whether to regret the way he had treated her, but that didn’t matter.

Severus did, though. He helped her, did all the heavy lifting. She knew it wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart; he did it out of desperation and selfishness—the mutual motivations they shared. Still, she had to be grateful. But he was out of his mind to think that Petunia Evans’ word was to be trusted. 

From behind the podium, she looked directly at the boy standing in the back. “It is why I’ve decided to withdraw from my boarding school with the support of my parents.”

She did not take pleasure in the way his face changed, a mixture of hatred and heartbreak, but he was an outcast in every world and was no longer of use to her now.

***

He found her behind the church, away from the people offering condolences and awkward conversation. Immediately, he crowded her up against the wall, eyes dangerous and voice dark. “You played me for a fool, Petunia." 

She smiled prettily, unintimidated, then dared to move closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “It’s Lily, now,” she breathed. “If you want a taste, then you better make a move, Severus.”

He snarled and pulled back to press the end of a wand to her throat. “You’re vile.”

“And you’re a coward,” she returned unflinchingly, fixing him with green eyes that were as familiar as they were foreign. “You don’t think I’ll do it?” he whispered, pressing the wand against her throat harder.

“No,” she said. “You still see her when you look at me. You know that she’s still here.”

Severus Snape did not have a lot to lose; his family was nothing to be proud of, their Gringotts vault was always on the verge of bankruptcy, and his friends weren’t true. They would’ve fed him to the giant squid if it meant power. His only Achilles’ heel was Lily Evans. It was always going to be his downfall.

He faltered, and she brushed past him, straightening her dress. “That’s what I thought.” 

***

_Three years since the transfer_

The French countryside was gorgeous, and so was her fiancé, Cecil Lloyd, who was an entertainment lawyer to boot. Neither of them were French, but it was decided that dreary old England was no place for an outdoor ceremony and destination weddings were coming into trend.

Her Cecil first saw her gracing the cover of a regional magazine. Struck by her beauty, he’d ordered his assistant to send her a large bouquet of roses and an invitation to dinner. Now with a seven karat diamond on her finger and his arm around her waist, they could laugh in that light society manner and say that  _the rest was history_.

She had woken up with butterflies in her stomach, which was promptly written off as normal wedding day nerves. A leisurely brunch with her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Betty, sister-in-law and maid of honour, Cynthia, and two bridesmaids, Lori and Dawn was had before hair and makeup.

“It’s a shame your family was unable to come,” Betty said. She smiled wanly and placed her hand atop of Betty’s. “It’s quite all right, mother. Your presence is more than enough for me.”

When her family invitations had gone without response, she had laughed it off, muttering something about _perhaps it had gotten lost in the post,_ when in reality she hadn’t sent out those invitations at all. Her Cokeworth roots were to never emerge again, not under her watch, not when she was just about to step into a world where she owned real diamonds and pearls and wore the finest silks.

Betty was about to affix her veil when she suddenly felt a wave of nausea strong enough to make her collapse into her chair. “Lily! Are you all right?”

She found herself unable to answer, instead gesturing urgently for a wastebasket. Dawn was barely able to shove one beneath her chin before brunch made its reappearance. She heaved violently until all she could taste was bile. By the end of it, her body felt clammy with sweat, flashing hot one second, then cold the next. Her eyes streamed with the sudden attack, undoing the makeup artist’s meticulous application at an alarming rate. She swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, making her lipstick smudge across her cheek, adding to the deteriorating state of her face. 

Her three bridesmaids had identical looks of thinly veiled disgust on their faces, each visibly angling their body away from her. Betty frowned disapprovingly. “Having cold feet for my son?”

“NO!” she rasped, rushing to reassure. “No, not at all. It must’ve been the lox that didn’t agree with me. I’m perfectly fine.”

“ _Honey_ ,” Lori said. “You only have twenty minutes to pull yourself together, and you’re looking…rough.”

“Then make yourself useful!” she snapped. Immediately, her hands began to shake as another wave of nausea hit her. Stomach thankfully empty this time, though the action was no more pleasant, she dry-heaved into the wastebasket she was still clutching. _Why now? Why now?_ She lamented as she took in a ragged breath. Then suddenly, it was clear. The hum of squashed magic pressed beneath her—usually gone unnoticed—was rushing and churning in a way that it had never done. Rebelling, protesting.

Fury rose up in her, its intensity almost unnatural as her vision went red. Betty’s incessant _tsking_ and clucking about how unbelievable it was that this was to happen and _how would it look to all of the guests—her son’s_ celebrity _clients that his bride was completely unpresentable_ grated on her shot nerves. With remarkable control and as much dignity as she could muster, she straightened, ignoring the pain that ran through her spine and the sudden lurch in her bowels.

“I am getting married to Cecil today. I love him and he loves me. I don’t care if I look like a goddamn zombie or if shit is running down my leg, I am walking down that aisle,” she said, glaring through watery eyes, “It is up to you whether I am presentable or not, and we are on limited time, ladies.”

***

_Five years since the transfer_

Cecil had gone to some sort of conference in Milan, leaving the London townhouse to be hers for the week. She, however, had no intention of enjoying the solitude.

The pain had began as a light throbbing, similar to the result of having a too-tight updo, and she’d written it off as such. When it hadn’t disappeared by the next morning, she had tentatively reached for the dormant magic, only to find that it was calm—deceptively so as she later learned. The over-the-counter painkiller she swallowed had not given her the desired effect of relief, and every remedy she tried over the course of a month held the same result. The headache remained and refused to be quelled.

Annoyance eventually gave way to misery. Once the doctor’s verdict had declared the cause to be stress, she knew that it had to be of her unnatural condition. Simply put, the root cause of her pain was the presence of Lily’s soul beneath hers. Magic had placed her soul into Lily’s body. An impossible had been achieved. Surely, it would also be able to eradicate the first and leave _her_ to be the sole inhabitant.

The cherry red convertible was uncomfortably conspicuous against the run-down backdrop of Spinner’s End—a place she swore to never step foot into again. It was a mark of her desperation to invoke the absolute last resort and stand on the very same doorstep she had nearly six years ago. Unsurprised, she noted that the Snape residence hadn’t changed at all.

“Who are you?” Mrs Snape’s harsh voice demanded through the cracked open door. Not letting the immediate barbarity deter her, she smiled in a way that she learned was charming. “I’m a friend of Severus, is he here?”

Mrs Snape’s face pinched further. “A friend would have known that my son has been dead for six months! _Don’t come here again_.” With that, the door slammed closed, making her choke on the gust of air produced from the action.

She stood stunned for a moment before walking mechanically back to the car and getting in. Beneath her skin, the magic made itself known, buzzing furiously as an invisible knife stabbed at the crown of her head.

***

_Nine years since the transfer_

“Happy birthday, darling.” She kissed the boy’s chubby cheek delicately before directing his attention to the camera. The white flash of light produced a bright burst of pain through her head, but her smile remained winning.

“Mummy,” the little boy said, tugging at her powder blue skirt impatiently. “When can I open the presents?”

“Soon, William. Go and play for now,” she said, sending him toward the horde of children in the living room before returning to her seat, perching on the edge delicately as she reached for her teacup. “I apologise for the interruption. What were you saying, Barbara?”

“Quite all right, dear. It’s natural for a child his age to be drawn toward new things,” Barbara chuckled. “I was just about ask you, and Cecil, of course, to host this year’s Summer Gala. That place of yours in Cannes sounds wonderful.”

“We would love to—” she began. A chorus of high-pitched laughter sounded from the living room as the clown did a particularly amusing trick. She winced imperceptibly. “I’d have to run it by Cecil first, but I’m sure we can make it work." 

The laughter shifted to screams as the sound of popping balloons echoed through her ears, and suddenly it was as if she’d aged forty years or had just left a loud rock concert. A near-deafening squeal rang in both ears. A quick glance around the room confirmed that it was a sound that only she could hear.

“Sorry, what was that?” she said distractedly when Barbara called her name.

“Are you feeling all right? Coordinating events can be very stressful, perhaps—”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. I just thought I heard something.” She shook her head and tried to smile in a reassuring manner. “Like I said, I would have to run it by Cecil, but I have the utmost confidence that it’ll be a smashing event in our hands.”

Malevolently, the magic crashed in waves. Her shaking hands clutched the teacup as the ringing in her ears reverberated through her—a new companion to the head that had been relentlessly aching for the past four years. Barbara had moved on to discussing potential colour palettes.

 ***

_Fifteen years since the transfer_

Yoga was all the rage, so naturally, Annie had dragged her to a class with an almost inappropriately cheerful, “Didn’t you say that your muscles and joints had been bothering you?" 

She had no choice but to acquiesce, though she was not hopeful. The heating pads were the only thing giving her any semblance of relief these days. Her body was deteriorating. That much was clear, even if every yearly check-up had declared her to be in perfect health.

Sweat dripped from her brow as her perpetually sore muscles struggled to hold warrior three. “And release,” said the blonde instructor soothingly. She did not feel soothed.

After a brief stay in child’s pose, they shifted to shavasana, the final pose. She supposed it was nice to just lie still for a few minutes, even if the pain of containing another soul did not recede.

“So what did you think?” Annie asked brightly as they began to roll up their mats.

“It was fine,” she said non committedly.

“Let’s go and thank the instructor,” Annie said, pulling her to her feet.

“Sure.” 

The blonde woman received Annie’s praise graciously before turning to her. “Lily, was it?” the instructor said, continuing after a quick confirmation. “I could see that you were in pain throughout the class, and your friend just told me something about your having issues with your muscles and joints?”

“Erm, yes,” she said, before hurrying to add, “It was still a wonderful class, though. Did wonders for calming the mind.”

“Thank you for saying so,” the instructor said with a sweet smile before lowering her voice to a whisper, her eyes taking on a strange gleam. “But I can see you’re not quite right, Lily.” 

Her body felt frozen, trapped under the microscopic gaze of the instructor. Then the spell passed, and the instructor’s voice shifted back to its previous tone. “Please don’t let this discourage you. An adjustment period is completely normal. Here’s my card if you’d like some private lessons. Perhaps some easier variations to start?”

“I’ll think about it,” she managed, taking the stiff card before rushing out the door. What had the instructor seen in her? Did they all see it?


End file.
